My grandmother passed away Thursday and I'm just having to (finally) say no to work for a little bit. I'm finding that there are just some things I can't force myself to work through, and this is one of them. My grandmother was 92 (officially, we all think she was a few years older – sneaky as she was she lied about her age when she came through Ellis Island). Funny thing about funerals, not only do you loose someone that means so much to you – you now get to see relatives that you rarely see all swooshed together unexpectedly for a few solid days. Oh the joys of family reunions <grin>…

I've been thinking a lot the past day or so about not only my history with my grandmother, but her history. From the outside, it would appear that my grandmother was a fairly passive and meek person. I know that she was a strong woman. She was a Holocaust survivor, and a survivor of a pretty crappy marriage that allowed her to leave Europe. She has five kids – one of which is my mom. You aren't told how to be a strong person, you learn it from those around you. The people around you that appear to be doormats that do what they need to do in order to make a better place in the world for their own kids. Four generations later, I see the results of my grandmother's sacrifices in her great-grandchild – my own daughter. She was just always there. Now she isn't. I have quite a legacy to live up to.

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